


Split Knuckles Therapy

by flyingllamas, Kangoo



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, Drunk Sex, Grief/Mourning, Hate Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rommath gets drunk punches lor'themar in the face and then they fuck what else do you want me to say, i have no idea how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 06:36:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14490978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingllamas/pseuds/flyingllamas, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangoo/pseuds/Kangoo
Summary: Rommath does not deal well with grief. Or pity. Or alcohol. Actually, Rommath has made kind of a habit of not dealing well with things.





	Split Knuckles Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you just need to write characters beating each others up for funsies  
> llamas, this literal angel, wrote the smut because I'm a big dumbass who writes sexual tension but hates writing porn. she also came up with the cool title! she's gr8 y'all check her stuff out

“I think I get it now.”

 

Rommath’s head snaps up, his sight getting a little blurry before finally focusing on the man standing a few feet away from him. He’s more than a little drunk, by now, but it doesn’t stop him from glaring at Lor’themar in a way that used to send mages — known for their lack of survival instinct — running for cover. Getting to this state of inebriation took him a great deal of time and alcohol and he’d hate to see all that effort go to waste because the lord regent decided to come bother him on one of his few nights off.

 

“Get what?” He snaps in irritation when Lor’themar doesn’t explain himself.

 

“Why you’re like... this,” Lor’themar replies, gesturing to Rommath as a whole.

 

He throws back his glass and slams it on the table, almost snarling at the regent. “I’m not in the mood for your shit, Lor’themar. Never have been, never will be. Get to the point.”

 

Lor’themar shakes his head and steps forward. He doesn’t go as far as to sit next to Rommath, which would probably end up costing him his remaining eye, but he does lean against the bar, crossing his arms on his chest.

 

“You’re such an asshole,” he says, matter of factly. “Like you’re miserable and you’re taking it up on everyone around you.”

 

He wants to say, I am, but truth is he’s not. Not anymore. He used to think he was miserable, but it’s been so long since he’s last felt something else than sad and angry that he’s gotten used to it, forgot there is an alternative. He’s not miserable, he’s just tired now.

 

“But you could just ask, Rommath.”

 

“For what? Help?”

 

“Yes.” It’s said immediately. Easily. As if there were nothing else to it — as if it did not come with a price.

 

Rommath doesn’t have it in himself to laugh. He gestures to the bartender who hands him the full bottle with a disinterested glance.

 

“I don’t want your help, Lor’themar, and I sure as hell don’t need it.”

 

“But you do!” Lor’themar half-yells. He sighs in frustration and pinches the bridge of his nose.

 

“You don’t know me,” Rommath spits.

 

“But I want to. Problem is you keep your cards so close to your chest, we can barely tell you’re playing.” Softer, this time. Almost genuine.

 

Almost.

 

He wants to ask, why do you care?

 

What he says instead is, “Why don’t you leave me alone then?”

 

He looks back down to his bottle and goes to take a swing from it. Lor’themar hand curls around his wrist and stops him in his movement.

 

“Because Kael’thas died ten years ago and you’re drinking yourself half to death instead of just talking about it!”

 

Oh.

 

His entire body freezes, muscles tense and jaws locked in a snarl. Slowly, carefully, Rommath turns his head toward Lor’themar, who stares back, stubborn.

 

Humor doesn’t come to him easily, but anger — that he can do.

 

Lor’themar opens his mouth — to keep talking or to apologize, he doesn’t know. And he never will, because Rommath punches him in the face before he has the chance to get a word out.

 

The blow takes him by surprise, enough that he staggers backward. Rommath catches him by the collar before he can collapse, the bottle shattering at his feet. He looks at him in the eye, faces so close together they’re breathing the same, alcohol-charged air.

 

“I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. All I want is for you to get the fuck out of my life and go die in a ditch somewhere they won’t find your body,” he hisses.

 

“That wouldn’t bring him back.”

 

“I don’t want him back, you fucker, I want you dead!”

 

Magic crackles under his skin, sparks jumping between his fingers. Behind him he hears the bartender yelling from the other side of the bar, “Take it outside, Rommath!”

 

He snarls and says, too low for them to hear, “With pleasure.”

 

He half-stumbles, half-strides toward the door, dragging Lor’themar behind him.

 

The night air once they get out of the crowded bar does nothing to cool Rommath’s head. The door closes behind them and immediately he is on Lor’themar, spinning him around and slamming him against the wall, his forearm pressed against Lor’themar’s throat. The other man isn’t fighting him, either dumbfounded or, more likely, trying to placate him.

 

It’s not working. If anything, it’s pissing him off further.

 

“You,” He hisses, once again getting into Lor’themar’s personal space, and stops. He actually doesn’t have anything else to say. His anger is an inarticulate, incoherent thing, fueled by deep-seated bitterness and inebriation.

 

So he doesn’t try to talk it out. He punches him in the face again instead. There’s a pretty satisfying _crack_ as his fist connects with his nose. Rommath steps back as he wobbles, half-sliding down as his head bounces against the wall. It looks painful.

 

_Good_.

 

He shakes his hand. His knuckles are bloody and stinging and he relishes in the feeling, yearning for more — pain and anger to cut through the numbness in a way nothing else really ever does anymore.

 

Lor’themar looks up. His nose is bleeding and he wipes it on the back of his hand, leaving a red smear on his infuriatingly neutral face. “Are you done?”

 

Technically, he is committing high treason. He should think about that.

 

Rommath narrows his eyes. “No.”

 

His next blow sends Lor’themar listing to the side, and he takes advantage of that to swipe his feet from under him and pin him to the ground, knees digging into his ribs, one hand curled around his throat and the other around his right wrist, keeping it high above his head. It’s too easy — it’s driving him insane.

 

Lor’themar is not a merciful man, nor a particularly patient one. He’s seen him deck out someone for less than that. That he’d let Rommath get away with so much is — absurd.

 

“Why the fuck won’t you just _fight back_ , you _coward_?” He snarls.

 

He wants to insult him. To throw his past mistakes back in his face, get a rise out of him. He wants to make him _mad_ , wants to _hurt him_ , anything to make him react, but he’s too tired and too drunk and too angry to find anything. He wants Lor’themar to _feel_ for him, since he can’t.

 

“I’m all about getting this out of your system, but I draw the line at fueling your self-destructive tendencies,” Lor’themar says and shrugs, grimacing as the movement jostles his new bruises.

 

“Fuck.”

 

Rommath’s hand moves from his throat to his other wrist and he bends down, teeth barred. He wants to tear his throat out and watch him bleed into the grass.

 

He kisses him instead.

 

It comes as something of a surprise for the both of them, although Rommath is more shocked by the fact that this is apparently something that he has wanted to do for a while but never consciously admitted. Lor’themar inhales sharply, eye widening, but doesn’t fight him off anymore than he did when Rommath was punching him, which doesn’t tell him much about his opinion on the situation.

 

He tastes like blood. Rommath licks the cut on his lower lip and bites him until the coppery taste floods his mouth and drowns out the liquor.

 

And then he draws back, because Rommath is an asshole but forcing a kiss on someone might be a bit much, even for him. He’s left dizzy and breathless, with a dazed Lor’themar lying still under him.

 

“Shit,” he gasps out.

 

He gets on his feet and drags his hand through his hair, swaying slightly from side to side. All of his anger has left him in a second, and now he only feels cold and annoyed at himself for losing his calm like that.

 

He has a temper, sure, but that’s no reason to risk execution because his boss is acting like a dick.

 

Lor’themar sits up with a groan, rubbing his throat. Rommath opens his mouth to say sorry and snaps it shut, scowling. He doesn’t _mean_ it, and it wouldn’t matter, anyway. ‘Sorry’ has never made anything better.

 

“You pack one hell of a punch for a mage,” Lor’themar says conversationally.

 

“I do what it takes to survive,” He replies with a sigh and, after deliberation, offers him his hand. “Always have.”

 

Lor’themar takes it. “I know.”

 

He helps him to his feet and immediately lets go of his hand, crossing his arms over his chest to hide his sudden, uncharacteristic awkwardness.

 

Lor’themar looks at him and his eyebrows rise. “Are you _shy_?”

 

“I just punched you in the face and then basically molested you,” he explains, although he feels like he shouldn’t have to. The awkwardness of the situation seems pretty evident. “I’m surprised you’re not returning the favor.”

 

He steps forward. Rommath, the stubborn bastard, doesn’t budge, which puts them about an inch from each other. He licks his lips, swallows hard, and looks Lor’themar straight in the eye. He knows a challenge when he sees one, and hasn’t survived this long by backing down from one.

 

“You know what? I just might.”

 

A hand comes to rest against the back of his neck. Lor’themar smirks, seeing right through his facade, and drags him down into another kiss.

 

“Your place, or mine?” he whispers against Rommath’s lips.

 

“We live two doors down from each other,” he replies, too dazed to roll his eyes. Then, “But I can teleport us into my room.”

 

“Yours it is,” Lor’themar says, just as breathless.

 

Rommath steps back and Lor’themar follows, plastering himself against his chest. In a blink they are falling backward into a portal and into Rommath’s bed, sending books and scrolls flying as they land.

 

Lor’themar is immediately all over him, his lips trailing down his neck, his hands settling on his waist, under his shirt. Rommath tangles his fingers in his hair and lets his head fall back as Lor’themar bites down suddenly. It hurts, the sharp edges of Lor’themar’s fangs drawing blood from his neck, but the cry that Rommath lets out is far from pained.

 

Another bite has Rommath arching off the bed and against Lor’themar. Some part of him is thankful that his regular collar will hide these bites from his students, but still another is disappointed that the violent bruises won’t be on display come tomorrow. It would certainly quell certain unpleasant rumors floating around the magisterium.

 

Lor’themar leaves a line of bites down his chest, only pausing to nearly tear the shirt off of Rommath and shuck off his own at the same time. He feels warm rivulets of blood course down his skin to the sheets below, and knows that he will never be able to wash out the remnants of this night. The magister is hardly a passive lover while the Regent Lord leaves bruises against the pale canvas of his skin, though. Rommath’s sharp fingernails dig into Lor’themar’s back, leaving bleeding lines when as they rake up with each bite.

 

Lor’themar stops when he reaches the end of the dark, thick trail of hair that runs down from Rommath’s chest and disappears into his pants. Rommath _whines_ when Lor’themar pulls back. He tries to pull Lor’themar’s mouth back against him, but the other man pulls himself from Rommath’s piercing nails. He catches Rommath’s chin in his grip and forces the other man to look at him.

 

“Listen to me, Rommath,” he says. “After we finish here tonight, your attitude _will_ stop. You may snipe and snarl and insult Halduron and myself as much as you wish, but your active antagonism against us, your active _self destruction_ , will not leave this room.”

 

Rommath does snarl then and he pushes himself away from Lor’themar’s hold on his chin and across the bed.

 

“Or what, Theron?” he growls. “You have no sway over me. You never have.”

 

Lor’themar looks at him with an expression of mild amusement, and that is when Rommath realizes that he has made a grave error.

 

“On the contrary, I do,” he purrs as he crawls on the bed. He leans over Rommath and cages him in with his arms. “Do I have to remind you that it is a crime punishable by execution to attack the acting leader of Silvermoon?”

 

The other man’s words give him enough pause that Rommath deflates slightly, the sharp, hot edges of his anger replaced by a cold, cautious fear.

 

“You wouldn’t dare,” he says, calling Lor’themar on his bluff. The other man tilts his head above him, long cornsilk hair escaping over his shoulder and tickling the tip of Rommath’s nose.

 

“You’re right, I wouldn’t,” he says, “But it got you to listen, didn’t it?”

 

Rommath says nothing in reply, but turns his head to avoid Lor’themar’s heavy gaze and huffs. Lor’themar takes his silence as permission to continue.

 

“You are going to get all of this...this unspent rage, this aggression out tonight,” the Regent Lord says. “I do not care if you have to beat me until I am a bloody pulp, or if you fuck it out through finding your end in me or on my cock. This ends tonight. I will not have my right hand actively fight me as we plunge into war.”

 

Still, Rommath says nothing, his mind racing to grasp the gravity of Lor’themar’s words. It is true that he has been actively fighting Lor’themar lately, instead of silently judging his every decisions as he usually does, making his life harder than it ought to be. Truly, Rommath does not know why, for they worked together well on the Isle of Thunder. Perhaps it is the decade past since his prince’s death...perhaps it is the rise of yet another tyrant that does not care for their people, casting his fate on the battlefield like carelessly thrown dice upon a table. Maybe he just got to the point where everything is too much to hide; too much to keep down and hidden.

 

He’s never worked well with authority. Figures it had to come out at some point.

 

“Well?” Lor’themar pushes.

 

“Fine,” Rommath says quietly.

 

“Fine? Does that mean that you’re going to punch me again or rip out my throat with your teeth? Or does that mean--” Rommath cuts off Lor’themar’s (rather mocking) rambling by grabbing his face and smashing their lips together in another biting kiss. Lor’themar’s blood smears across his lips and his face, some grim facsimile of the rouge so many of their people use. The taste of it kindles the embers in Rommath’s veins, but it quenches the anger that has been haunting him for so long now.

 

Rommath hastily shoves his hand down the front of Lor’themar’s trousers, stroking the ranger’s cock into full hardness. A twist of his wrist has Lor’themar groaning into the kiss.

 

“Rommath, off,” he commands, his voice rough with want. “At least let a man take off his trousers before you do that, for Light’s sake.”

 

He pulls his hand back so that Rommath may unbuckle and shove off his trousers, but mocks the other man by saying, “Are you afraid of finishing in your pants like a teenager?”

 

“Yes, actually,” Lor’themar grumbles, reaching for the ties of Rommath’s pants and removing them along with his small clothes. “Not all of us have time for flings when we’re ruling kingdoms. It has been too long.”

 

Rommath shoves him back and Lor’themar goes willingly, arranging himself so that he lays against the many pillows that Rommath insulates his bed with. The magister climbs on top of him, grinding down. They both moan. Lor’themar is beautiful below him, his face bruised and bloody, his hair spread out in a halo below him

 

Rommath does not deserve this, but Light, does he _want_ it.

 

“You presume much, to think that _I_ would have the time,” Rommath gasps out, let his hips fall into a steady rhythm in grinding against Lor’themar.

 

He knows that he could find his end like this, just with the simple frotting like some inexperienced teens behind a stable. He does not want to come like this, for the fires filling his veins demand something more. Lor’themar, too, seems unsatisfied with this. He pushes softly against Rommath’s shoulder, disrupting the rhythm. Rommath cannot help the whine that escapes his throat again. At this point he’s too far gone to feel ashamed of his neediness.

 

“Would you have me fuck you?” Lor’themar softly asks, one hand reaching up to cup his face softly and the other rest on Rommath’ hip. Part of Rommath lashes out at this tender treatment — Lor’themar has no business treating him like some soft lover. “Or would you fuck me?”

 

Neither really sounds quite satisfying. Rommath feels the need to be filled this night, something that he has missed in his many solitary nights. If he truly wanted to fuck something, his own hand would suffice.

 

“I will ride you,” he decides then. Lor’themar does not verbally react to his words, but Rommath sees his swollen cock twitch against where it lays against the elf’s stomach and Rommath takes some pride that his words affect him so.

 

“Then would you let me prepare you?”

 

He tosses a tin of lubricating balm at Lor’themar by way of answer.

 

Lor’themar slicks his fingers and traces them gently down the curve of Rommath’s spine, leaving a wet trail that makes Rommath shiver when the cool air of his room hits it. The bitter, angry part of him snarls again at the gentle treatment and Rommath leans forward to sink his teeth into Lor’themar’s collarbone as punishment. Lor’themar groans and his hips twitch upwards, but the blood trickling down from the new wound does not stop him from circling Rommath’s entrance with his fingers and pressing in slowly, too slowly, with a single finger.

 

Despite his deep breathing and willingness, Rommath cannot help but tense. It has been too long since someone has done this too him, let alone since he has done this to himself. Lor’themar hesitates.

 

“Alright?” he asks. Rommath growls.

 

“I’m fine,” he snaps. “If you stop now, so help me I will pluck your other eye from its socket and hang you outside the window of my room, so that all might see your blue balls in death.”

 

Lor’themar laughs, his voice rumbling out deeply through his chest and reverberating through Rommath’s bones. Rommath does not know if he is affected by his threat, or if he simply is continuing where he left off, but the finger inside him is withdrawn and then shoved back in roughly, hitting a long neglected part of him that makes Rommath’s back arch harshly. He can’t catch his breath, can’t help but feel dizzy from the delirious pleasure and lack of oxygen as Lor’themar continues to stretch him open. This is exactly what he needs — something that will keep him from thinking, from feeling anything but the pleasure burning through his nerves, and Lor’themar knows that.

 

He is keyed up beyond belief when Lor’themar finally withdraws his fingers, trembling when he reaches behind him to grab Lor’themar’s cock to find it already slicked up. They both groan when Rommath presses back against it, slowly sinking down onto it. It’s a little painful, even despite Lor’themar’s careful preparation, but that’s because Rommath is wound tight as a spring, too anxious, too angry, too _everything_ to let go and relax, to make this easier on himself.

 

He likes it this way, likes the burn when he’s fully seated. Lor’themar’s chest heaves and Rommath can see the other man trying to control himself, trying to stop himself from thrusting upwards into Rommath. He’s considerate, far more than any of Rommath’s previous lovers had been, but Rommath isn’t here for considerate. He rakes his nails down Lor’themar’s chest, leaving bleeding scores. Lor’themar hisses and finally his control slips. He bucks upward into Rommath, hard enough to punch a weak moan from his deprived lungs.

 

“Rommath, don’t do this…” Lor’themar warns, his voice barely more than a whisper.

 

“Do what?” Rommath asks. “This?” He lifts himself so that only the head of Lor’themar’s cock remains in him, and slams back down. They both cry out, Lor’themar from the pleasure, Rommath from both the pain and pleasure racing through him. “I thought you wanted me to fuck out my anger.”

 

“Not like this,” Lor’themar grits out between his teeth. “You’re hurting yourself.”

 

Rommath laughs then, bitter and sharp.

 

“You don’t get to be picky, Theron,” he says, setting a brutal pace. It’s more pleasure than pain at this point, but he’s not going to let Lor’themar know that. Let it keep any nonsensical ideas from his head, that this could mean anything more than an anger-fueled fuck. He knows that Lor’themar is annoyingly sentimental, stupidly emotional. He knows that even this is the man trying to save him, and he will not have it.

 

Or he wouldn’t, if Lor’themar did not seize him by the hips and force him to stop hurting himself, force him to slow his pace. Rommath growls at him, but Lor’themar ignores him.

 

“The point of this is for you to enjoy yourself,” he says.

 

“The point of this is to get rid of my ‘attitude’,” Rommath snaps back. “Did you not say that yourself?”

 

“Fucking yourself on my cock until you bleed isn’t going to help that,” Lor’themar says.

 

“Then what will?”

 

“Let yourself feel this, enjoy it,” he says, and he guides Rommath’s hips into a slower, more tender pace. “I promise you will feel better afterward, if you only let yourself enjoy it for once.”

 

Still, he fights Lor’themar, fights him despite the slower, harder thrusts somehow making it harder for him to catch his breath than before, fights him through harshly biting his lips and raking his nails against Lor’themar once more. Lor’themar only kisses him back sweetly, coaxing him until Rommath is lured into complacency, capturing his hands with one of his own and bringing them up to his mouth to kiss bloodstained fingers. Each thrust is measured and Rommath feels nearly overwhelmed by the amount of pleasure coursing through him now.

 

When at last Lor’themar’s pace stutters, breaking the steady, slow pace into a stuttered, frantic push, Rommath finds himself hurtled towards a new edge he’s never known before. His vision whites out from the force of his orgasm, a scream silenced in his throat, as the the heat in his veins reaches a fever pitch. When he comes to once more, he is lying against Lor’themar’s bleeding chest. At some point, the Regent Lord pulled out, leaving a small trail of come trickling down his thigh. One of Lor’themar’s hands is combing through his hair, which had escaped its tie during their activities, while the other gently strokes his back. With each touch, Rommath feels the prickling anger and aggression inside him subside.

 

“Alright?” he asks. Rommath growls weakly at him.

 

“I thought I told you not to ask that, Lor’themar,” grumbles Rommath tiredly. Lor’themar rolls his eyes and presses a kiss to his forehead. He carefully shifts Rommath from his chest and gets up, heading in the direction of the wash basin on the armoire. He returns with a wet cloth and gently wipes up the come and blood that Rommath is covered with. Rommath sighs and stretches the ache out of his limbs.

 

Lor’themar was at least right in that he _does_ feel better — sated, and tired in a way that makes his eyes blurry and his body heavy. As if he could just fall asleep on the spot, instead of tossing and turning under the sheets for two hours before slipping into a restless few hours of sleep.

 

“Well, I guess I’ll be going—” Lor’themar blinks a few time before he smiles, amused, when he notices Rommath is snoring softly, already asleep.

 

He tiptoes around the room, careful of the magical paraphernalia littering the ground as he gathers his clothes and puts them on. Then he pulls the cover over Rommath’s naked body, brushes stray hair off his face, and presses a kiss to his forehead. He leaves as quietly as he can.

 

 

 

 

(Halduron sees him leaving Rommath’s room. He gives him a once-over, noting his messy appearance in silence, the bites littering his neck and chest and his bruised lips and breaks into a wide grin.

“ _Nice_ ,” he says, and disappears in his own quarters before Lor’themar can reply.)


End file.
